In the comfort of our home, Marc and I are beginning to understand where Reed fits. How to take care of him and show our love for him every day. We are learning the shape he takes in our lives and seeing how he influences the people we are becoming. Being parents to this precious little boy will always be a challenge, but it is also becoming our normal. It is no longer unfamiliar.
In the real world...it’s not that simple. Now that shelter in place restrictions are being lifted and we are finding ourselves venturing outside the comfort of our home, we are once again constantly knocking up against what it should be like. Interacting with the larger world can sometimes feel like I am turning my back on him, because I am unfamiliar with how to incorporate him into these spaces I am not yet used to. People don’t know how to talk about him, so they simply don’t. Places that were once familiar and comfortable to me now seem foreign. They haven’t changed, but I have.
As I learn to wrestle with my grief and accept it as a part of me, no longer as something I am trying to conquer or get over, things that used to crush me don’t always hit with the same intensity. Some still hurt deeply. When I see a new pregnancy announcement, or learn of a healthy baby’s birth, a stab of jealousy and longing shoots through me. When I see a new mom pushing her stroller past my house, I avert my eyes to avoid the pain I feel, while also feeling a desperate curiosity about whether that child is the same age as Reed should be.
But it is not only these obvious markers of the life we should have had which stop me in my tracks. Nor are these the only times my son is on my mind. I am not exaggerating when I say I am always thinking of him. There is not a single part of our lives that would not have looked different if Reed were here now.
In the obvious moments when others are remembering he should be there, yes, so am I. But I am also noticing all the forgettable moments, things other people would never imagine as having any connection to Reed. When I visit a friend and am introduced to their child’s yellow leopard gecko, I wonder if Reed would have found its bumpy skin and sideways eyes fascinating. Then, I am momentarily saddened because I will never know. When I hear thunder booming outside, I think about how I should be snuggling with my frightened little boy. Then, I am momentarily saddened because I realize I will never see his eyes widen at the sound. When I spot a colorful yellow stone on the side of a trail as I’m hiking, I smile and think about the child who must have placed it there, and the next one who will come along and discover it. Then, I am momentarily saddened, because neither of those hypothetical children will be Reed.
Sometimes these moments of momentary sadness are as forgettable as they would have been otherwise. I pause, I wonder, I let my sadness gently nudge me, and then I move on with my day. Other times, I pause, I wonder, and the sadness crashes into me and knocks me over. That happened all the time at the beginning, and is already occurring less frequently. Instead, these brief, forgettable moments of wondering and the sadness that accompanies them are, like everything else, simply becoming our new normal. It is no longer unimaginable to live in this state all the time...it is just how we live. It is the way we connect with our son. He doesn’t exist to me only as the infant I held in my arms, but as a toddler, as a young boy, as a teenager, all at once. This is what it is like to be a bereaved parent. It is seeing all the moments that should have been forgettable, moments we never would have noticed if he was here, and mourning the fact that we’ve lost them. It’s wondering things about my child that I probably never would have known anyway, but now will never get the chance to learn.
What surprises me is the simultaneous relief alongside these moments of sadness. There is a comfort in imagining who Reed would be, and in knowing and feeling the indelible mark he has left on my heart. He is my son every day, whether he is physically by my side or not.
It likely comes as no surprise that we think of our son all the time, or that we miss him in every single moment. What seems to surprise people is the amount of happiness and joy we feel when we get the chance to share him with others. You see, for all those forgettable moments we are missing, there are many moments of beauty and joy I would have taken for granted had it not been for my little boy. Moments with him, and moments since saying goodbye to him. This is what I am desperate for people to understand - all the beautiful ways Reed continues to influence our daily lives. You see, my son’s death was heartbreaking. His life isn’t. Because he was born, the world is just a little bit brighter. Our lives are just a little bit sweeter.
Each day, we ask each other, “What’s something you love about Reed today?” The answers are often the same - his crazy hair, the adorable hiccup pattern of his breathing, his stubbornness, or the simple fact that he made us parents - but that doesn’t make them any less comforting to discuss. Here is what I love about Reed today: I love the way he taught me to appreciate the little, forgettable details of life. The time we had with him was filled with moments that, in a normal childhood, would be completely unremarkable. It is those moments I loved the most, moments where we were just a couple of parents with their new baby, holding his hand and smoothing his wild hair. Not a single second we had with our son was taken for granted, which means we are left with memories we would have likely forgotten if we hadn’t known exactly how special each one was.
Showing us how to cherish each small moment is a gift Reed gave to us. Today, it is one of the ways I find myself parenting him. I look for small, forgettable details in my day and I take an extra second to appreciate them. I gaze at the sky for just a little bit longer than I would have, or I focus on the soft sound of a hummingbird’s wings and realize how beautiful this world is. I let my mind linger just a moment longer on the forgettable moments throughout my day, and I say a silent thank you to my son for showing me how.
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